


Winter's Flame

by bloodofthepen



Series: To Burn Like Ice, To Melt Like Fire [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“…fire and ice,” Varric concluded, settling back in his chair. His pint was only halfway to his lips before he received a complaint:</p><p>“What, that’s it?”</p><p>The storyteller shrugged and took a swig of his ale. “For today, Rivaini. We still don’t know where this is going yet.”</p><p>---<br/>Hawke's companions have a running bet on her relationship with Anders. They're too clever to get caught in the act, and deflect her prying with musings on magic that might just bring the pair closer together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hanged Man

“… _fire and ice_ ,” Varric concluded, settling back in his chair. His pint was only halfway to his lips before he received a complaint:

“What, that’s it?”

The storyteller shrugged and took a swig of his ale. “For today, Rivaini. We still don’t know where this is going yet.”

Isabela wrinkled her nose. “Everybody knows where it’s going but them—even Merrill has money riding on this.”

The elf in question nodded. “Oh yes—I only had about ten silver to put in when it all started, but I’m hoping I do all right. But… how will we know who won?”

“Oh, trust me, Kitten… we’ll _know_ ,” Isabela chuckled.

Varric nodded over his tankard. “The day it happens, we’ll be sure to tell you what your take is, Daisy.”

“That doesn’t tell me _anything_.”

“Don’t worry about it; I’m a professional. It’s my job to notice these things.”

Isabela nudged her with an elbow. “People tend to have a special look about them. They touch more, share _interesting_ glances…”

“But they seem to do that an awful lot now, don’t they?” Merrill traced the contours of her tankard with a finger. The metal was warm now, and the swill more undrinkable than usual in that state.

“Sure, but it’ll be different, more frequent, if you can imagine that. Varric and I know the signs, Kitten—don’t worry. We’ll be sure to let you know.” Isabela downed the rest of her pint and reached across the table to start on the wine Varric had brought out of his cabinet at the start of the evening.

“Don’t pour it over the remains of the ale, Rivaini.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not, Varric—you think I’m an amateur, letting good wine go to waste?”

“I think you’re a drunk in a rush. You might want to pour some for Daisy—I’m pretty sure she’s done with that swill, and I’d like her to actually get some wine before you finish it.”

“Oh, Varric, she’s only just opened the bottle,” said Merrill.

“Don’t let that fool you, Daisy—Rivaini can put away some drink; you’ve seen her.”

“Knock, knock!” Hawke reclined in the doorframe of the suite, a crooked grin lighting her features. “Might we join the party?” Indeed, Anders could be seen just over her shoulder, shaking his head at her, casting one of the much-discussed smiles in her direction.

Varric spread his arms. “For you, Hawke, my door is always open. Come in and sit down, both of you.”

Isabela and Merrill exchanged a glance: the pirate winked, and the elf poorly stifled a giggle.

Hawke slid into the place beside Varric. “What’s so funny, you two?”

“Oh, nothing! Nothing at all!” Merrill cast her green eyes to the floor, hands clasped over her mouth, unable to smother her smile.

“Just a game we were playing is all.” Isabela tipped the bottle into a couple goblets snatched from the desk behind her. “Wine? It’s Varric’s, so it ought to be decent.”

“You wound me! It’s a little more than _decent_.”

“Absolutely,” Hawke replied, tipping her chair back while Varric went to fetch more glasses. “Maybe you can catch me up on the rules of your game, and you can keep playing.”

Merrill’s gaze immediately delved, quite firmly, to the bottom of the burgundy pool in her goblet. “Um…”

“It might take some time to explain—”

Varric clinked the goblets firmly on the table. “It wasn’t a game so much as speculation, really.” He took over pouring from Isabela who arched a brow at him. She was quite capable of covering without help, _thank you_. He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Hawke, her own brows high in expectation.

“You can’t bullshit me, you know,” she said, half grinning. “I haven’t gotten this far by falling for everything everyone tells me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t _dream_ of bullshitting you, my good messere. We were just talking about how you and Blondie have a sort of ‘fire and ice’ shtick going on.”

Anders nearly choked on his initial sip. “Pardon?”

Merrill was back to failing at subtlety, while Isabela simply didn’t _bother_.

Varric chuckled. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s just that you seem to have a habit of freezing your opponents bloody well solid on the battlefield, while Hawke tends to have this desire to burn the ever-loving hell out of everything. Not to mention, it’s common knowledge that Hawke can’t conjure a snowflake to save her life.”

“Hey, I could if I wanted to! Fire’s just more fun.”

The dwarf gave her an incredulous look. “Let’s see it, then.”

She took a swig of her wine, plopped the goblet down, and stretched out a bare palm. She exhaled, bright blue eyes narrowed, nose wrinkling in concentration. _Cold_ , she thought. _Very, very cold_. She attempted to embody the sensation of frost on the windowpane, of icy Ferelden winters, of snow seeping into her boots.

There was a single ripple in the air, like mist.

It fizzled and died, and Hawke snapped her hand closed.

“Well, with practice…”

The others shared a hearty chuckle, and Anders extended a hand where hers had been. A tiny flurry swirled in the air, crystalline flakes catching crimson firelight before becoming little, wet droplets on the table. “We can work on it, my dear.”

Hawke crossed her arms petulantly. “Fire is more fun and bloody well easier.”

Anders shrugged. “It must be all that time I spent outside in Ferelden.”

“And it’s my theory that the fire is a result of all Hawke’s pent-up frustration.” Isabela tipped her wine to her lips to cover the smirk that followed.

Varric shot her a glare. It didn’t count if she tried to push things along. They’d agreed. “When I tell it, it has to do with a burning desire for vengeance after the Blight, the fires of perseverance, the very embodiment of her successes as she burns a name for herself in this Maker-forsaken city.”

“Oo, I like that!” The mage in question went back to rocking on the hind legs of her chair. “A little more badass than a winter storm.” She tossed Anders a wink.

“Oh, ha, _ha_. I could drive a spike of ice through a man’s torso.”

“That is pretty impressive,” agreed Merrill. “Maybe I could learn that trick.”

There were suddenly severe lines around Anders’ mouth and Varric was going have absolutely _none_ of that political wet blanket shit tonight: “I was just getting to that part! The frost magic usually has to do with isolation, yes, but it’s also the steely grip of justice, the icy hand of vengeance as it sweeps aside all in its path to carve the way for rebirth in Kirkwall—the way winter heralds spring.”

“Damn, you’re on the top of your game tonight, Varric.” Hawke grinned.

He made a little bow from his high-backed chair. “I aim to please.”

Isabela propped her feet on the table. “Wicked Grace?”

“We don’t have everybody yet, but I’m sure they’ll survive if we start early—what does everybody else think?”

Merrill nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes—before I have too much wine, please. I don’t want to lose all night. Again. Like every week.”

Hawke shrugged. “Hey, if you all want to start your losing streak early…”

Anders passed his goblet between his hands. “Why not?”

Isabela grinned. “That settles it!” She produced her deck from the customary Andraste-knew-where.

“Sounds good.” Varric flexed his fingers and took a long pull from his flask. “And Rivaini— _boots off the table_.”


	2. The Streets of Kirkwall

“You know, Anders, I don’t think I’ve actually seen you conjure fire before.” Hawke’s fingers laced with his as they kept to the shadowed, dusty stairways to Hightown. There was a triumphant flutter in her heart when he did not pull away.

“I pray we’re never in a situation where you have to see it.” The moonlight filtered sickly pale between buildings, warmer torchlight catching his amber eyes every so often, shadows playing across tense features. She could tell he was trying not to worry her hand, not to cling; his right kept seizing in a tight fist instead.

“What do you mean?”

They always argued about who would walk whom home at the end of a long adventure or game at the Hanged Man, and finally compromised by agreeing that every other night would be a different destination: first the Hawke estate, next the clinic. Tonight was Anders’ turn to guide her home.

He sighed, brushing her wrist with his thumb. “Varric was right when he said it’s not what I naturally turn to in most situations. I tend to use pyromancy when I’m most desperate or afraid.”

Her mouth quirked in a smile. “Is that what they call it?”

“That or ‘fire magick;’ technically, it just falls into the Elemental School. Pyromancy was the title of a book I read once, and I rather liked that name.” He shrugged. “It’s harder for me to get into the mindset of flames than frost. Fire is… angry, passionate. I spent so much time burying those feelings that they tend to stay locked up. I turned to the indifferent severity of ice instead.”

“Locked up until you need them most.”

“Or until they spill over.” His mouth tightened, stressed lines appearing deeper in the shadows.

Hawke gently squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s---you’re fine.”

They continued for a while in relative silence, distant drunken songs and occasional guardsmen’s chatter dogging their steps. It was unusually quiet on their route; there had only been one potential bandit, and he was easily deflected with a glower. Having lost the element of surprise (and probably recognizing two apostates when he saw them; Hawke wasn’t particularly keen on hiding it anymore) slunk off toward Lowtown. Aveline was organizing the Guard well, indeed; their presence on nearly every corner, giving the pair a silent nod as they passed probably had something to do with the lack of trouble.

“Maybe there _is_ something to Varric’s story, then,” Hawke mused as the Chantry loomed up ahead.

“What? Your flaming passion and my frosty tendencies?” The lines were still present around Anders’ mouth, but his eyes were smiling. That was something.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Yes and no.”

“Well, there is one question I have about this whole thing—you’re the sort to joke about everything, and it’s… a tactic I recognize. How do you stay so… in-touch with all of… _that_?”

“There might be something to what Isabela said about _frustrations_.” Hawke waggled her eyebrows. “It’s all got to go somewhere.”

“If I had a drink right now, I’m sure I’d be choking on it.”

She chuckled. “Seriously, though…” Hawke furrowed her brow as they stopped before her door. “…it _does_ have to go somewhere. All of the—” She waved her free hand. “—stuff, you know? I have a lot of regrets, Bethany and Carver foremost among them. My mother… I’m all she has left, and it’s _wrong_.” Her jaw tightened, but just for a moment. She shrugged. “That’s all there is to it. It’s easy to let it all loose on some wicked sod.”

Anders nodded, and, hesitantly, raised his hand to caress her cheek. “Thank you, Aldis.”

Hawke could feel a blush creeping up her neck. “Thank you.”

There was a twitch in his fingers, and Anders was suddenly two full steps away. “Well… good night, then, um—Hawke. You know where to find me if you need me.”

Her cheek still tingled with the warmth of his touch. She smiled even as the cool, night air chased it away. “Good night, Anders.”

Hawke watched him from the door until she could see him no more, beneath the shadow of the Amell crest. The torchlight cast a warm glow across her features, but they could not outshine the cold, sickly pale of the moon overhead. _Next time._


	3. Varric's Suite

“Varric, I need some advice.”

The dwarf sat back in his chair, brows arched clean to his hairline. “If it’s about storytelling, I can give you some pointers, but no trade secrets.” Hawke closed the door behind her. “If it’s about dealing with the Merchant’s Guild, I have advice for that.” He folded his hands as the mage took a seat, worrying her lip with her teeth. “But if it’s about business, you’re well-nigh unteachable, I’m afraid, Hawke.”

She chuckled. “Oh, Varric, you wound me! And here I thought I could start my own business and earn myself hundreds of sovereigns on the silk trade.”

Varric shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong—the money in this city is in arms and armor for supplying the Templars and the City Guard. That or lyrium smuggling. As I said—hopeless. Look what you did buy into, after all.”

Hawke heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for the workers. I swear those poor bastards need to be rescued from something every other week.”

“Even if it’s just Hubert’s temper.”

“Exactly.”

Varric took his tankard from the table and brought it to his lips. “So, if it isn’t business, what does bring you here?”

Hawke’s eyes flicked to the worn grain of the table. “ _Romanticadvice.”_

The dwarf’s tankard froze in midair where he was about to return it to its place. “Come again?”

She heaved a sigh, blue gaze still firmly fixed to the tabletop. “I need some romantic advice, Varric.”

The tankard met the table with a thunk. “And you thought I was your best bet?” He chuckled, reaching to the pocket of his duster. “Why not Rivaini—wait, no, don’t answer that.” He drew a flask from his pocket and put it immediately to his lips. "Exactly what kind of romantic advice are you looking for?”

A humorous glint returned to Hawke’s eyes. “Before I tell you that, Varric, let me explain why you’re my best bet.”

“This should be good.”

She began ticking them off on her fingers. “Isabela would be great for sexual advice, but I’m afraid asking her about romance would cause… well, a lot more trouble than I could clean up if I actually did what she suggested. As you realized. Merrill is sweet, but inexperienced, and I think elven customs would probably be rather… different. Fenris doesn’t like Anders and doesn’t have enough tact to fill a thimble even if he did agree to help.”

Varric nodded. It really didn’t leave much to choose from.

“And Aveline. Just… _Aveline_.”

“You have a point there.”

“And Anders is the issue. That leaves the most charming, silver-tongued man I know.”

He chuckled, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “What about your mother?”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “I am not asking my mother.”

“Okay, okay.” Varric readjusted himself in the high-backed chair, settling in for what was sure to be quite the talk. “But I’ll warn you, charming the ladies isn’t one of my practices anymore—Bianca would be jealous.” He patted the crossbow, leaning against the arm of his chair, never far from his side.

“Well, I’m sure Bianca won’t mind you passing on your skills to someone who can use them.”

“We’ll see.” He steepled his fingers. “What exactly is the trouble? Your usual charm seems to work well enough—Blondie is enamored of you already. What more do you need?”

“That’s just it! He seems to be… enamored. But he doesn’t do anything about it.”

Varric arched an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“Yes!” Hawke plopped back against the chair, an exasperated huff escaping her lips. “Or… I _try_ , but he keeps pushing me away.”

“And yet you two are together five of the seven days.”

“But he won’t…” The mage’s cheeks colored. She stopped and tried again: “He brushes me off by saying it’s too dangerous for me to get involved and every time something almost happens, he just leaves.”

“Ah,” Varric said wisely.

Hawke frowned. “What?”

He chuckled. “Blondie will come around, don’t you worry.”

“Oddly enough, Varric, that doesn’t help me.”

“Look, Hawke: he’s trying to protect you. That just means he’s already irrevocably in love with you, and, knowing you, you won’t heed his warnings—and then, one day, he won’t be able to resist anymore.”

Silence.

“What?”

“Are you sure this is advice and not just an attempt to write ahead? It’s not exactly part of your story yet, you know.”

“Of course it is—you just don’t know it yet.”

Hawke crossed her arms and fixed him in a dead stare.

“Right. I can see you’ll need a bit more to go on.”

“You don’t say?”

“Careful, Hawke—that sarcasm will get you into trouble one day.”

“ _Varric_.”

“You’re right, it already does.”

Her fingers twitched.

He raised his hands. “No need to light anything on fire, hot stuff. You’ve continued to be your usual charming, irresistible self since Anders started in with the isolated revolutionary routine, haven’t you?”

“As irresistible as humanly possible, yes.”

“Well, humanly is the best you can strive for, unfortunately.”

“Not everyone can reach the paragon of manliness and charm.”

Varric chuckled. “Unfortunately not.”

“So….?” The mage turned her wrist in a gesture for him to continue.

“So, all you need to do is wait him out. Maybe push just a little harder on occasion. An extra sashay of the hips, get a little too much in his space, a couple sultry looks, a dash of flattery, but mostly—just be your usual dashing self. Soon enough—boom! Everything will be in order. Unless it isn’t. In which case, do me a favor and don’t blame my advice?”

“What would be the use in that? I have to blame _someone_ if everything goes to shit.”

The dwarf shook his head, grinning. “It won’t; I promise.”

She sighed and rose. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Get out there and melt his heart, Hawke.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“My dear lady, have I ever struck you as the sort to just _let things go?_ ”


End file.
